


Sometimes

by DecemberIceStar



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecemberIceStar/pseuds/DecemberIceStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her thin, scarred fingers find his calloused, heavy hand and for a moment, they are complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the last chapter of Mockingjay but before the epilogue.

**Sometimes**

Sometimes, he can't find her.

She sits right in front of him but her eyes are empty, haunted, staring at shadows and monsters he can't see. On days like that Peeta just takes her into his arms and holds her until she falls asleep, hoping she'll return to him when she wakes up. She usually does.

Katniss only leaves for more days on difficult times. The day that Prim died, the day she was reaped, the day she returned to the arena. Those hours are horrible for Peeta. He has to stand there as she whimpers and cries over the primrose bushes outside their house. She stays there, long after her tears have dried and stares at the roses, unmoving, ignoring her husband's attempts to get her in the house. She doesn't even recognize him. The blond baker is careful not to make any sudden movements; he knows it could set her off.

But there are also good times. She laughs and smiles and kisses him. She never says thank you but he knows she feels it. She always hunts a squirrel after she goes back to normal because she knows they are his favorite. He cooks and she watches from the table, grinning. Her small hand covers his while they eat and she gives him a smile.

Her grey eyes always convey things she's too afraid to say aloud, as if speaking will make them banish and slip like smoke between her fingers. His blue eyes accept them and his lips form the words, for both of them.

The leaves change color, fall and then grow again.

He bakes, she hunts.

He rebuilds the bakery and hires some of the survivors of the original District Twelve to help him. The dough forms cakes, bread, cookies. His work of everyday and he gives it away every day. In the evening, when school ends he makes a batch of cookies and gives them to the children. Their innocent, toothless smiles are enough reward he says. She doesn't question him, they have more than enough to live with and a few batches won't make them starve. He decorates the cakes and sells them to the capitol. His cakes are very expensive there; if only they knew he makes them for free in every wedding and birth on the District.

He paints, she runs.

Every morning, she wakes up at five and runs on the forest. She just wanders around the lake, the trees. She spoke about it only once. She told him she likes to run around the forest just because she can. She can cross the Meadow and go into that endless sea of green and yellow without worrying about starving, or being reaped, or being caught by the Peacekeepers. It's just her, the wind, the soil and the echo of her father's laugh on the wind.

Rain falls, evaporates and falls again.

Sometimes, she can't find him.

His calm eyes harden and he grips a table or a chair too hard. It could be a couple of minutes, a couple of hours or a couple of days. His muscles tense and his jaw clenches. The sky turns grey and he tries to keep it at bay. Sometimes he can, others… he can't. The blonde victor feels horrible when he comes back and sees the blue and black bruises on her neck, her arms, her legs. She holds him and tells him it's not his fault. The Capitol did that to her, not him. Never him. Each time it takes a little longer for him to forgive himself but he manages to do it. He smiles again.

Those days are far between though. Most of the time, he comes back at six and cooks whatever she caught that day. He moves with ease on their kitchen, heating and frying and decorating their meals. He makes her cheese rolls every Wednesday. He says he doesn't make them every day because then she wouldn't enjoy them as much and nothings make him happier than seeing that sweet grin on her lips when he gives them to her.

His canvases are everywhere on the house, in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the porch. Surprisingly enough, he's quite messy with his things. He gets home and throws his coat on the sofa, leaves his brushes forgotten next to the sink until he needs it again. She picks them up, not because she has to, she knows he picks everything up on Saturdays, but because they are like his cheese rolls. Something she does without asking for something back because he already gives her so much.

So yeah, sometimes they can't find each other. Sometimes they wander, blind and deaf, unable to find the other. They always do. Her thin, scarred fingers find his calloused, heavy hand and for a moment, they are complete.


End file.
